Plead guilty in Van Nuys,
right before growing mad in Burbank,
then got the hell out of there,
with plenty of time to spare.
They found a beautiful mother
with a barren womb walking on
the same street that fell to the stars.
She fell on her knees,
but she disappeared before I could fall…
They claim that it is always ten degrees
warmer in the Valley, than in any other
place in Los Angeles, and I believe them.
Hell is creeping over closer,
faster than autumn can escape from the cats.
The 405 and the 101
collide like a pair of metal hurricanes;
and everyone is frozen, clutching
their steering wheels, dying slowly
in the sultry traffic.
I was always a coward,
lying my way through a gauntlet
of greed and tyranny; but the truth
is that this place is much too affable,
than it is smoggy. The choppers
fly around with sweeping their candlesticks
around the land,
pointing at the harvest.
I had never paid my dues
until the sun grabbed me by the shoulders
and dragged me to a street fight;
and I was left dangling my yellow spine
like a child with a punctured balloon.
My friends have vanished,
the poetry on my fingers was too guilty
to comprehend the insanity.
There goes that fine line, again,
walking around the block, losing
his mind in the dark.
I wonder if they will let me write
one more line,
so I can dream about driving down
Ventura Blvd. with the pulse of
my imagination swerving
in between the margins.
But we always get what we pay for,
this place never ends;
and I am
and this place
stabbing painfully.

This one takes you on a rather wicked ride that I can't get enough of... I loved some of the imagery, it just jumps out at the reader and screams "I'm not quite ok but dammit... ok!" ::chuckles:: Great job... great job.